Chapter Text
Sergeant Niall Cavanaugh of the NYPD did not expect the Devil to have such impeccable taste. There was, however, no other explanation for the finely dressed middle aged man who had just appeared in the chair across from his desk with a rush of air and black smoke.
“Mother Mary…” He crossed himself reflexively but the man was still there, still sitting in the one of the most expensive looking black coats Niall had ever laid eyes on. In fact, he even looked amused.
He went for his gun next.
”Colloportus” said the Devil and the desk drawer where his sidearm rested refused to open, as if it was locked.
Damn. “You’d be better off looking like a hot blond dish, you know,” he told the thing-- man?-- Devil?-- across from him with all the bravado he could muster.
The Devil snorted and lifted an eyebrow expressively. “That sounds like a waste of my time and potion ingredients.”
“Well, you’re doing a damn poor job of the whole temptation and enticement business then.”
The Devil pushed a hand through his slicked back hair and Niall noticed that the coat wasn’t entirely black but trimmed instead with fine white silk at the sleeves. Make that the most expensive black coat he had ever seen. “Perhaps I should explain myself. My name is Percival Graves and I have a proposition for you.” Surprisingly, it was not for Niall’s immortal soul. Graves wanted access to files, to occasionally have Niall tell him if a particular individual was spotted in the neighborhood or conduct an interview.
It all seemed trivial, small potatoes for someone capable of appearing in the middle of the Sixth Ward’s basement at 3 a.m. as if by magic and Niall told him as much.
“My talents aside, occasionally nothing can compensate for the raw manpower of the NYPD. There are...laws and rules for my kind that I cannot violate as well. There would be consequences if I were to do some of these things myself.”
“That’s cryptic.”
“One of those rules limits how much you can know.” Graves spread his hands in what could have been an apologetic gesture if he’d seemed in the slightest contrite. “In return, I’ll help you solve cases other people can’t.You seem like a man of imagination; I doubt I need to explain how my talents might be useful. I assure you, your captain will have a much easier time seeing past your religious issue--” and he sketched a poor copy of Niall’s cross in the air “--when you’ve made the reputation of his department.”
His Ma had never mentioned the Devil’s fashion sense and she had also never mentioned how hard he was to resist halfway through the night shift in a dead end job. NIall thought about other men, who’d left the academy at the same time as he and were further along in the ranks. He thought about the small and worn apartment he shared with two flatmates. He thought about Breanna Lynch’s strawberry blond hair and freckles, her laugh and her smile, the pearl-and-sapphire engagement ring on layaway at Macy’s.
“Deal,” Niall Cavanaugh said and held his hand to the Devil. He had expected it to be cold, to be crushing, but the man’s grip was solid, palm faintly callused.
”I’d like the files on any warehouse fires this past year. Particularly any with unknown cause.” Graves gestured with two fingers across the desk. “You’ll find a sigil on your holster. When you’re alone and you have something for me, touch it and I’ll know to come.” He paused and the dark brows furrowed, as if thinking intently for a moment. “If you are ever truly in danger, touch it as well. You may not remember my help, but I will come.”
Before Niall could ask him how precisely he was supposed to do anything with his holster when Graves had somehow locked the desk drawer, the Devil vanished in the same rush of air and smoke as he had appeared.
It worked. At least, as far as Niall could tell. Percival Graves never seemed annoyed with the information he provided; Niall’s arrest record had gone up. The captain had noticed and moved him to the day shift. While it wasn’t a raise, at least he could sleep at a normal hour.
Three months after he had struck his deal, one of his informants told him when Red Jacob was bringing in fresh whiskey. Bathtub gin was well enough for some, but there was real money to be made in European imports--- Irish whiskey, real champagne-- but the risks were even higher. Lose a car of moonshine and you were out a few hundred dollars of produce and the car. Lose a crate of whiskey and the loss would cost you thousands--- and if you were in Red Jacob’s crew, maybe your life.
He took a small squad to a warehouse late at night, right by the docks. It was cold; the wind off the docks cut right through Niall’s coat. It brought in the sea mist as well, smelling of salt and smoke from the ships that passed in the darkness. There was only a single watchman, walking his rounds by flashlight-- the yellow light swinging back and forth, a jerky half-circle that matched his steps. Niall signaled to his men to hold their positions as he waited, counting the steps until the watchman had passed.
He slipped out behind the man and was met with a hail of gunfire. The misty night lit up with muzzle flash and something threw Niall backwards. It felt like he’d been hit in the chest with a baseball bat before there was a searing pain and he was on his back, struggling to breathe. The squad was returning fire but he knew what Red Jacob was doing. The fucker had been a sniper in the war--- shoot the first, leave him out in no-man’s land to rattle the enemy, then pick off his comrades who couldn’t bear the cries.
Niall had been in the war. He hated snipers.
The fire from the warehouse had died down and he could hear his men whisper among themselves. Had they done it? Was it clear? They hit the warehouse with another rattle of fire. Niall moved, rolling onto his stomach with a groan of pain. Blood filled his mouth from the movement and he spat. He started to pull himself towards cover. Red Jacob wouldn’t let his bait get away. If the squad had truly managed to deal with his guards--
Another bullet shattered his shoulder blade and gunfire erupted again.
Niall was having trouble focusing. His right side was one giant mass of burning pain. Really? After two years of war, shot in the goddamn back? To hell with that. He reached a shaking hand to his hip, to the regulation holster with the panther sigil that had appeared on it three months later and pressed his thumb against it.
“You want my soul, you better hurry the hell up,” he told empty air.
Niall was standing in Red Jacob’s warehouse staring at his open palm. The sniper himself and six of his guards were handcuffed on the floor and they were surrounded He was holding two spent, twisted bullets in his palm. Written on the same palm in a sweeping, elegant script was You’re welcome. G.
“Please tell me I punched you for that cock of the walk nonsense you pulled,” he told Graves next time he saw him, waving his right palm illustratively. “You’re welcome?”
“You were barely conscious.” Graves told him. “You spent most of your time telling me to stay the hell out of no-man’s-land.” A small smile quirked his lips. “And that you hated snipers. In colorful terms.”
“Not an uncommon opinion.”
“Trust me; I know.” The look of annoyance and distaste on Graves’ face made Niall wonder if he spoke from experience.
“You fought?”
“We weren’t supposed to. Some of us did anyway.”
“You have a problem doing what you’re told, don’t you.”
Graves’ grin was a blend of mischief and ferocity. “Only when it’s bullshit,” he said and vanished.
Niall stared at the empty space in the alley where the Devil had been previously. It occurred to him that that, cryptic as it was, that was the first time Graves had volunteered any information about himself.
Their partnership continued and it wasn’t as terse as it was before. Niall learned that Graves was some kind of cop--- “You sure as hell ain’t a beat cop. You dress fancier than my boss.”--- that he’d lost a brother in the war-- that’d been promoted out of the field within the past year or so.
Niall’s raise paid for the pearl-and-sapphire ring. He’d meant to wait until after Christmas, to take Breanna somewhere and propose with a love letter from one of those novels she loved. He’d even borrowed the book from the library and copied out one that he liked. But at Christmas Eve service she wore a navy blue dress trimmed with white lace and pearl drop earrings and Niall couldn’t wait any longer.
“Bree.” Niall pulled her to one side and fumbled with his wallet until he found the ring. “Breanna Grace Lynch--”
He didn’t get the rest out or even get entirely down on bended knee before Breanna had tackled him, shrieking her assent so loudly that the priest had come running from the sanctuary, afraid someone was getting killed.
They were married in May and when Niall returned to his work, it took precisely ten minutes for an irate Percival Graves to appear in his office.
“Where. Were. You.” he said in a calm voice that made Niall immediately pity anyone who actually worked for the man and had the bad luck to piss him off.
Niall, however, didn’t.
“Good morning to you too.”
“I have been trying to reach you for two weeks. Where. Were. You.”
“I feel bad for your subordinates. You must scare the hell out of them.” Niall started to sort through his inbox.
“Oh, if you were my subordinate, I would fire you right now.”
“Well, I ain’t!” Niall had gotten sick of it. “I got married, you ass and I don’t need to clear it with you when I go on my damn honeymoon. Now what do you want?”
Graves had said no more about it but spoken of business instead. When Niall came into his office for his shift the next day, however, and opened his desk drawer, he’d found an envelope he didn’t recognize inside. He opened it. Inside was a small notecard of thick creamy paper; Niall knew that Breanna’s paperback novels would have called it vellum or parchment with Graves’ same swooping script. My apologies and my congratulations. G. There were two twenty dollar bills inside as well, so crisp and so new that Niall had borrowed the counterfeiting pen from Vice and checked them.
Percival Graves was not as much as an ass as he probably thought he was. And Niall had never known the Devil to apologize.